Feels like Home
by MissLauraKinney
Summary: He woke up in the morning and he couldn't breathe. He woke up in the evening and he couldn't sleep. But he closed his eyes and he couldn't remember his name. Danger followed Stiles like he followed Lydia. And he knows he's going to get hurt.


Stiles loved his mother. He really did. But that didn't stop it from hurting when she kissed Scott good morning, thinking he was Stiles. Didn't stop her from forgetting his birthday, or Christmas. Didn't stop his dad from blaming him every morning for her worsening condition. Stiles had been little when IT happened, when he died, three or four maybe. His mom had come home late in the evening with her head shaved. Stiles' parents had managed to hide his mom's pain from him for this long, but how could he _not_ notice when she came home without hair? And still they acted like nothing was happening.

Stiles loved his dad. He really did. But all the love in the world couldn't stop his dad from drinking, couldn't get his dad to put down the bottle of jack and read him a story, or take him to the zoo. Stiles knew his dad wasn't an alcoholic. Stiles knew very well, because his dad said so all the time. Said he could stop whenever he wanted, didn't need the liquor, didn't really feel that bad. But Stiles knew it was never going to get better the first night the bottle flew at his head. But they acted like nothing had happened. Acted like Stiles hadn't died again.

Stiles loved his Brother. Scott really was a sweet kid. And he genuinely cared enough about Stiles to help with hiding the liquor bottles sometimes. (Or finishing them off, but they agreed to never talk about that). But he didn't understand. Not even when he was driven off in the back of Stiles' dad's car, because his mother wasn't fit to raise a child, did he understand why Stiles wished that was happening to him. Wished he could have been put in the system. Wished he could trade places with Jackson Whittemore. Jackson who got another chance at another life, and couldn't appreciate that. Couldn't appreciate it like Stiles would. And his dad still acted like nothing had happened to them.

Stiles loved his dad's job. It was really the best. And super helpful when he got involved in all the supernatural drama that always seemed to follow him home. Drama was like the Stiles to his Lydia. But the second time Stiles made his father lose that job, he began to wonder. He wondered what his dad's life would have been like if the dementia had taken his son, not his wife. What life would be like if he were dead. He wondered what his life would be like if he hadn't dragged Scott into the woods that night. But most of all, he wondered what his life would be like if he could remember the third grade. But he acted like nothing was happening to his memories.

Stiles was sure his dad loved him. He knew he did. But it was hard to remember that sometimes when his dad was banging on the bathroom door demanding Stiles come cuddle with him. It was hard to remember sometimes when Stiles lay in bed at night, his dad's soft sobs drifting up through the grate; the only thing blocking the noise was the sound of the rain hitting the pavement outside his window. It was hard to pretend that he slept with the window open because the summer breeze was relaxing, when winter came and he still left it open. It was hard to tell himself that he wanted to stay here, as he picked broken glass out of his hair, hard to tell himself he wasn't dying again. Isaac Lahey knew what he went through, but they didn't talk about it. Stiles just acted like nothing was happening to his family.

Sometimes Stiles wished his dad would just hit him already. Would just leave a bruise. Leave a mark. Leave some proof that what Stiles was feeling was real. Was going through was real. But he didn't. And that made it worse. He crooned to Stiles like a baby. Cuddled him. Packed him school lunches. But he did it drunk. He did it while telling Stiles how much like his mother he looked. Telling Stiles how it should have been him who died. Not knowing that Stiles had died then, and every day since. (His dad didn't say this in so many words, but it would be hard to miss the intention behind telling him about teen dementia, hard to miss the point of quizzing Stiles on things they had done years ago). As if wishing he could prove it was Stiles who was losing his memories. Losing his life. As if hurting Stiles would honor Claudia, bring her back. But Stiles didn't ask him to stop. He acted like nothing had happened that would hurt him. That would make him wish he were dead.

The Adderall Stiles took was prescription, yes. His prescription, not so much. But it should have been. He really did need it. He just didn't need half a bottle when he was stressed, another half when he was sad. He didn't need six pills just to get to school every day. He really didn't. And he could stop whenever he wanted. He knew he could. Just because he hadn't been given a reason to yet, didn't make that not true. But he couldn't. He tried once. He went a week without help from the drug, and it had gone really badly. The holes in the wall from where he pushed a pencil through to try and relieve some of the pressure in his head was constant, poster covered proof of that. But he didn't stop. He told himself that when his dad got help he would too. But he knew it was just an excuse to go on acting like nothing was happening to his body. Like he didn't keep dying.

The pain Stiles felt was real. And he knew it was. But that didn't stop it from feeling like someone else's life, something out of a lifetime movie. The nerdy guy loses his mom, his dad becomes a drunk, his best friends turns into a furry creature of the night, he gets hooked on drugs, doesn't get the girl, does not pass go. Does not collect two hundred dollars. But pain could only take you so far. Self-pity could only help you so much, lift you up so far. The rest is anger. Anger that pushed you on. Pulled you forward. Anger because he lost his mom. Anger because he lost himself. But he couldn't stop acting like nothing had happened.

Stiles loved Mellissa McCall. He did. She was like his own mother, but remembered his birthday, remembered who he was. She was like his dad, but took him to school, talked to him about normal things. She was like his best friend, but her advice was helpful, her smile understanding. So he couldn't help that he wanted to protect her. Wanted to keep her out of all the drama. Drama that followed Stiles around like he followed Lydia. So he kept acting like nothing had happened.

Until he forgot who he was.

Derek had taken them in. Taken them away from the pain. But in the end, he caused more pain than was worth it. Yes, he took them from the hurt, but he took away the hurt. And without the hurt there was nothing to remind them they were alive. Nothing to make them care if they were alive. So Stiles asked Scott to leave. Asked Scott to do what he'd always claimed he would; Stiles asked Scott to be there for him, asked Scott to choose him. And Scott chose wrong. Scott chose Allison. Always chose Allison. And Stiles almost couldn't bring himself to care. He was tired of acting like nothing had happened.

Derek was supposed to be their protector, their savior. Their Alpha. But he wasn't. He was their tormentor, their predator. And in the end, he was their death. A death whose bed Stiles couldn't keep himself from crawling into when he had a nightmare. A death whose warm hugs, however infrequent, light up Stiles' day. A death who Stiles wished had cared enough to take him, too. Because the only thing worse than being killed by someone who said they cared for you, was having someone who said they cared about you, not even care enough to kill you with the rest of your friends. So Stiles stopped acting like nothing was happening.

Stiles was seventeen when he told Scott. He told Scott everything. To his credit, Scott only seemed half shocked. Confessing that he's' had suspicions. Telling him that he always wondered why Stiles could remember so little. And Stiles knew they would be fine. Knew that Derek couldn't hurt them. Knew that his dad wouldn't. Knew that Scott was here with him, not Allison. So everything was okay. For sixty glorious minutes Stiles was alive. Until it hit him that he couldn't remember his birthday. And, even if he wanted too, he wouldn't have been able to pretend nothing had happened.

Stiles loved his life. He really did. He had great family, great friends. Overall, not much had happened to him. Yes, he had hit some bumps along the way, and had gotten turned around, but that didn't mean he was ready to give up. That wasn't the kind of decision a seventeen year old boy makes. So they made it for him. He was kicked out of his own body, his own mind. He was kicked out of his life. He watched his friends die for him, because of him. And he wished that were him instead. He realized at a tender young age that no amount of ignoring a problem could make it go away. And so, because of his own foolish mistakes, he watches his friends die. And he dies too.


End file.
